


Introspect

by Allthegenericnamesweretaken (Dingsbums)



Series: Gravity Falls shorts [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aaand here is your proof that I am utterly shit at titles., Fiddleford McGucket POV, Freeform, Gen, Introspection, M/M, That's basically it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:11:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7082809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingsbums/pseuds/Allthegenericnamesweretaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiddleford takes a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introspect

The clock hand skimmed 5:30pm he brushed his glasses further up his nose to scrub at tired eyes.  
He could do with a break anyhow.   
Wrapping up his files and tucking them beneath his desk, he rose and grabbed his jacket, wrapping it close as he closed the door behind him. The sun was only just beginning to dip below the tree line, and his legs felt strung and tight from days of confinement. He could do with a walk too. And a hat, he thought bitterly - the cold seared his skin pale as his breath steamed his glasses. The snow hadn't arrived yet, but it was damn near - clouds frequented the skies often, hanging low and heavy. It wouldn't be long now. As he walked, he sighed. Even with his work to occupy him, there was a crippling absence of his Tater Tot at his side - the kid was a bundle of knock-kneed curiosity, but he knew how to stay quiet when the time was right - he was a sweet kid that way. He sighed, already decided on his destination as he eyed a lonesome bench in the far distance. Honestly, he didn't know what he had done to deserve his boy - but not to loose him either. He hadn't seen him in months since his ex had taken custody of Tate McGucket. Of his child. He continued to walk in the cold quiet of the woods; they seemed responsive, but not intrusive in any way; more like an ear willing to listen if wanted than an omniscient presence. He dropped onto the bench, knocking the little sharp air in his lungs as he took in the view.  
Fiddleford leant back in his seat, the numbing cold seeping like damp into his jeans and throbbing dully against his skin. Frost lined the back of the bench, scraped aside by the fur of his hood as he stretched, watching his breath smoke and steam in the cold winter morning.  
Fiddleford was a simple man; he didn't need or ask for much or plenty. He was viewed by many as content - and indeed that had been how he was raised. To be content with the simple things - to cherish family, friendship and the warmth aside to good times and companionship. Son of the South indeed, and he prided himself in it.  
But he wasn't - not completely. Fiddleford was the kind of man who thought too much - he turned things over in his head, pondered, clicking over things in his mind like cogs until they became unrecognisably worn and stressed, only for new ones to arise, sculpted from the grease and shavings and only to stress over the state of their forebearers. It was a vicious cycle - one he preferred not to think on.  
Not that he could help it.   
He rose from his seat decidedly, checking around him as the blood rushed to his head, his cheeks flushing warm.   
Gravity Falls wouldn't have been where he would've moved had he any choice in the matter - not by a long shot - far too much risk, and far too little culture of any value, but he couldn't deny there was a reserved, whimsical beauty to the place. Not where he would live, for sure - but certainly a place to return to. He chuckled as he set his cold, achy legs in motion, struck by a thought. The cold framed Stanford perfectly. He loved this time of year; when time slowed and everything palled to a surreal, ethereal blue grey, the chill lighting it aglow in a queer, introspective sort. Fitting.   
The warm glow of the house peeked from behind the pines ahead - a glimmer of warm, homely light. It was like stepping back into a separate world; a familiar one of colour and warmth and sound, like stepping from a meditative silence to the embrace of good company and laughter. McGucket sighed, smiling a little. The cold gave him time to think for himself - to be himself without his cheerful stature to uphold, his brightening attitude. If there was one thing Stanford couldn't know, it was this. The man already thought far too much on his own accord, he reminisced fondly - there had been college nights aplenty in which he hadn't sought to rest a wink. One of them had to be the heartbeat of the two of them after all, and if there was one thing he'd learnt from the south, it was heart. Smile spreading crookedly, but genuinely this time, across his features, Fiddleford opened the door.


End file.
